Thursday, April 5, 2012

this placeless place

There seems to be a path through the dried grasses, but was it there all along or is the moment of being seen by my gaze causing the path to form, to open before me: or is there any difference, if I am following the path or if I am forming the path? It cannot be important, for the truth, the fact, is that I am on the path, I become the path. I walk. My mind wanders, entranced by this place but not of this place, which is empty and foreign and without form.

I am a child, there is a tree, all trees then were high and mighty, not yet revealed to be weak, fragile things with lifespans like any human. The tree has pink feathers growing out of a profusion of branches; the leaves are shaped like fern leaves, although I have never seen a fern, as a child, it is only now that I assign the fern to the trees. I am very young, and in the tree I am invisible, and I am invincible. There is no creature of the earth or of the sky which can harm me. I am very, very young, I am too young to believe in fairy tales, I can only be afraid of material reality, things proven by my own experience to exist and to cause harm. In the tree, none of these things can harm me. None of these things exist except outside the canopy of pink feathers and ferns.

True Grit / Charles Portis

crisp clean tulips